The Plight Before Christmas(6)

Two weeks. I have two weeks to formulate a course of action and decide on a new career goal. Six of those days will be spent here with my family to distract me from the pressure of making said plans. I’ll use every one of those six days to ignore the idea of putting on heels and striding through the office again as the powerhouse I had hoped to be.

Though I can’t deny the majority of my current dismay stems from the fact that I’m once again the only family member arriving alone.

Mr. Right never came, and after last night, I realized I may never be the career woman I hoped to become. Because if I were thriving at that, at least I would have ample excuse—a decent enough reason to be a failure in my personal life.

No one girl can have it all, right?

And with the death of my white horse, I’m officially the poor man’s version of Bridget Jones. Except I don’t expect to meet the love of my life wearing an ugly Christmas jumper, nor do I see myself forgoing alcohol units only to have two devastatingly gorgeous British men engaging in a street fight over my affection in the near future.

If only.

Screwing the cap back on, I pop in a breath mint and mentally note my first New Year’s resolution.

“Pity party over, Whitney. You’ll buy a new car and a kickass pair of heels to match. Gloves up. You’ll come back swinging.”

As the Jack warms me, I survey the cabin, the sight of it bringing me unexpected solace because it’s exactly as I remember it.

It’s been far too long since we’ve all gathered here. Our Christmases usually take place in my parent’s home back in Nashville, where Serena and I still live. My brother, Brenden, left Nashville and moved his family—his life—to Charlotte a year ago to base his company out of the city where a majority of his top billing clients live.

Nestled together in the seventies built, two-story A-Frame, it’s here where we’ll congregate for the next six days. Chest tightening with nostalgia, my Grampa Joe’s voice rings clear in my head.

“Just remember when times get hard, when your problems are blinding you, that you’re on a floating planet in the middle of a vast galaxy filled with the unexplainable, and the only thing holding you to it is an invisible force you can’t see.”

“Gravity,” I whisper softly, the effect of the cabin itself a balm to the knowledge that Grammy and Gramps aren’t inside waiting to greet me. Grams and I will never again have a long convo while Gramps snoozes next to her in his matching recliner.

Budding winter has already taken a toll on the landscape, a majority of the shrubbery and surrounding grounds lifeless from the previous snows, but the charm is ever present. Outside, it looks like a large cottage, majestic in a way with a grand, steep roof and large windows. A series of wooden steps lead up to the porch to the dark, oak door. White lights adorn all corners of the roof, making it look more like a gingerbread house, no doubt due to Dad’s careful execution. From the outside, it looks very much like it could house a fairytale, but within the cabin walls are memories more precious to me than any work of fiction could ever come close to.

Aside from our family home in Tennessee, a large part of my childhood took place here in North Carolina. Brenden, Serena, and I spent many summers camping in the backyard. Those nights consisted of the four of us gazing up at the stars, held captive by Grandpa Joe’s stories.

Gramps was a wise man—warm, levelheaded, funny, laid back. From the time we were young, he did his best to drill his life’s philosophy into our heads.

And I’d forgotten it the last few months. I’ve been barricading myself behind my work as an excuse to keep my distance from my sister and my parents because—at this point in my life—I’m starting to feel a little directionless. My brother is easy to avoid because he lives a state away, but Serena lives only a half-hour away from my condo in Nashville. And she’s demanding in the sense that she must know what’s going on in every aspect of her little sister’s life.

Eyeing Serena’s monster SUV, I exhale a calming breath knowing that the minute I set foot inside, the chaos will begin. My name will become the bane of my existence, and as far as Serena is concerned, I will be considered ‘the help’ for as long as I take up residence here.

“Stop it. You love them. Now let them distract you.”

Just as I reach for the handle, the front door opens, and my mother’s hand pops out in a come-hither gesture. My heart warms knowing she was looking for me.

Chuckling, I unbuckle my seatbelt and step out just as she graces the porch, a welcoming and soul-warming smile on her face.

“Get in here, Sweet Pea.” The sound of my nickname nearly sets me off as I wearily climb the stairs before molding myself into her open arms.

“Hey, Mom.” I inhale her scent, a mix of Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door and butterscotch. Breathing in deep, I clutch her tightly to me.

“This is a damn good hug,” she murmurs, “life been kicking your ass, kid?”

“You have no idea.”

“Gravity.”

“Gravity,” I reply with a sigh, keeping her tight in my grip. “I was just thinking about Grampa Joe.”

“Even from the window, I could see the weight of the world on your shoulders. Is your car, oh honey, is it smoking?”

“Just kicked the bucket,” I mumble against the shoulder of her sweater. “I’m going to have it towed away.”